


I'm Following Him

by captainpeggy



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Trans Male Character, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7899493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainpeggy/pseuds/captainpeggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1943, and they’re a long way from Brooklyn, but some things never change– Steve still can’t stay away from a fight, and Bucky still can’t let him go it alone, even when fists are replaced with bullets and punches with bombs. </p><p>The first mission of the Howling Commandos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Following Him

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry in advance for any historical or geographic inconsistencies on my part! I did my best to research and cross-reference, but everyone makes mistakes-- forgive me for mine.  
> CWs for violence (a little above canon-typical), alcohol use, and possible brief cissexism (it’s mild-- I’d say it’s a bit of an oversimplification of the trans experience at most).

It started on a frigid night in Brooklyn, to the backdrop of softly falling snow, to the coughs of a boy in the other room. It started with the soft glow of a sunrise, with a tenuous perch on a roof and the chirps of morning birds. It started on a cloudy afternoon in a back alley with a crash— on the Fourth of July. On Christmas. With candles in the window and the quiet hum of a fan; it started, one might say, in a bar, with the entrance of a woman.

Her hair tumbled in soft curls to her shoulders, and her eyes would have smiled even without the curl of her bright-red lips— they shimmered just a shade lighter than her dress in the dingy lighting. In a room of soldiers, every eye slid to her instantly. She wasn’t surprised in the least, nor was she put off. They knew her. None of them would touch her.

Except, perhaps, for one, and he rose with a smile, hair neat, uniform tidy. Everything about him was, that day. They say that people build their outsides up when their insides are collapsing, and here it held true, but when he met her eyes you could almost see his heart knitting back together. They had perfect faces, perfect minds, and it was nothing but beautiful to see the way they looked at each other.

But anything sweet can taste bitter with the right seasoning.

“You’re jealous,” declared one of the soldiers to Bucky later that evening, when a few drinks had loosened his tongue. “It’s okay, we all are.” A drunken arm slung itself around his shoulder, and someone else handed him a glass of something undeterminable: it tasted like piss, but he choked it down to the cheers of the crowd. “To not being Captain America,” declared Dum Dum, raising his own glass. “Women love a super-soldier!”

Laughter rippled across the men: good-natured chuckles, clinking glasses, joking grins. Bucky contemplated the mystery bottle on one of the tables, then grabbed it and took a swig. _Who cares? ___

Morita poked him. “Don’t hog it!” he yelled over the buzzing crowd, grabbing the bottle. “There’s a war on, haven’t you heard? It’s a limited resource!”

“It’s okay, I’ve got friends in high places—” sarcastic? 

“Precious Peggy,” Morita made a face. “What _is_ this stuff?”

Bucky shrugged. “The nurses could probably use some of it, though,” he replied, glancing around the room. “Save a couple’a legs.”

The other man laughed. “Yeah, but would their patients be better off if they disinfected with it or drank it?” 

“Versatility is a virtue,” offered Bucky.

Morita held out the bottle. “Sure is. Disinfect your gut, Barnes.”

The liquor burned his throat as he swallowed: two mouthfuls was all there was left, and it was probably a good thing. Bucky wasn’t anywhere near drunk, but this stuff would probably stop your heart before it had time to make you tipsy. The empty bottle shone in the light and Bucky was overcome with an urge to smash it. Not like anyone would notice with this noise—

“Do it,” Morita smirked. “Juice like that deserves a hero’s death… how about over Dum Dum’s head?”

“Nah,” Bucky said, tapping it absent-mindedly on a table. “I’ll save it.”

“Save it? Come on, live a little.”

“I’ll smash it over _your_ head, punk.”

Morita’s glass never seemed to empty: he took a sip of the amber liquid currently holding residence. “Do what you want, but violence always makes unrequited love sting less and that’s a promise.”

Bucky grabbed Morita’s drink with a huff. “Hardly in love with Peggy, am I? Not my fault she’s the only woman for miles.” Behind them, a sudden burst of laughter echoed through the room.

“Mm.” Rather than try and fight for his own glass, the man reached over his shoulder and plucked one from another soldier. “Thanks, pal— yeah, Barnes. Only woman for miles. You must really be suffering.”

“We all are,” joked Bucky, a halfhearted grin not quite reaching his eyes.

“Sure,” Morita said, sucking back his stolen liquor. “It’s awful.”

Bucky sighed affectionately, reaching to take the glass and slide it back across the bar. “You’re drunk, Jim.”

“Sure,” Morita said. “It’s awful.”

They drank for a while.

Nobody really noticed when Morita stole a sip of their drinks. The guy was short. Bucky, they noticed, but he’d just give them a smile and hold the glass up in Steve’s direction. “For my friend, over there.” It got the two of them more than enough, or it should have— by one in the morning, the only part of Bucky that felt even slightly off was a sore wrist from knocking back shots.

Morita, on the other hand, wandered off at quarter after, clearly aiming for the door but crashing into the large flowerpot to the side instead. The noise made Bucky flinch, and he reached out to help the guy up. Dum Dum beat him to it. “Nah, Barnes, I got this lightweight for now.”

“S’ya later, Buck,” mumbled Morita with a grin and finger-waggle. “Have fun. Hey! Hey, Dugan! Wanna buy me a drink?”

“No,” replied Dum Dum.

Morita looked up at him, confused. “But ‘m prettier than that one over there!”

“Jim, that’s a bar stool, and I’m not buying it a drink either. You need water, and you need to go to bed.” He glanced to Bucky. “Look at this crap. I’m being a responsible adult.”

Bucky shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m proud of you.”

“‘M not,” Morita grumbled.

“Nobody cares, bud. Let’s go.”

Bucky laughed as he watched the two men stumble out the door, Morita’s arm slung around Dum Dum’s broad shoulders. Good guys.

His friend’s assessment had been accurate: Morita was indeed prettier than the bar stool, but the bar stool was closer to alcohol. Not a contest. Running his fingers through his hair, Bucky slid onto the seat and caught the bartender’s attention, tapping his fingers absentmindedly on the counter.

“Yeah?” asked the man, drying his hands on a suspiciously grey rag as he spoke. “What can I get y— hey, how long have you been here for? You pals with that America guy?”

Bucky looked away, contemplating a faded poster on the wall. “Yeah. Sorta. What’s the hardest liquor you have in this place, and what’s the most of it I can get for a dollar?”

The bartender chucked the towel over his shoulder and back into the sink, then leaned over to talk. “You’ve been stealing drinks all damn night. I give you anything more, cops’ll be after me for manslaughter when you drop dead.”

“Huh?” Bucky frowned. “I’m not drunk, man.”

A snort. “Like hell you ain’t. I don’t serve the soft shit, and as far as I can tell, nobody brought their own tonight.” The guy glanced over to the register.

“I’m not. Why’d I be asking you for more booze if I didn’t need it?”

The bartender shrugged. “Lotta things in this world I don’t understand.”

Bucky shook his head, a confused smile on his face. “I’m not even tipsy, man, I can’t have drunk that much.” He heard the words leaving his mouth, crisp, neatly formed, unblurred by narcotics. “I really can’t have. You can give me some more.”

A surprised, then sympathetic expression crossed the guy’s features as he reached out to pat Bucky comfortingly on the shoulder. “Trust me, you drank that much. Knew a guy back in Oxford like that. Could drink all damn night and still debate foreign policy— real shame. Nice for business, though. Bottomless pit.”

“No—” No, I’ve been drunk before. “This never happened before.”

“Dunno.” The bartender went back to the sink, turning on the tap. “I’m not a doctor. All I know is I don’t want people banging down my door for a lawsuit when they could be off killing Nazis.”

_I can’t have drunk that much. I’m not even—_

Over the clank and clatter of glasses, the man spoke up again. “Don’t just sit there. I’m not giving you any more booze. Go find a girl or something.”

Bucky blinked. 

But he couldn’t have drunk that much. His vision was clear, mind sharp, hands steady.

He blinked again, then got up and left the pub.

It wasn’t a nice night. Bucky pulled his coat tight around his shoulders, but the winter wind still dug into his skin, dozens of freezing needles injecting a chill into his bones. He hated the cold. Always had. Cold meant too many blankets on the bed because they couldn’t afford heat. Cold meant Steve feverish and hallucinating. Cold meant no food, or no sweaters, and cold meant no way in hell was anyone getting out to work, which meant even less food. Even more numbness.

Lots of bad memories there.

He’d hoped to have a bit more of a buzz going before he braved this shit.

The base wasn’t far off: two streets, maybe three. They were already on the outskirts of town. Of course, the temperature stretched that distance to four or five, and Bucky hadn’t had much to eat, so exhaustion tacked on another couple. Sleet sputtered down, greasing the pavement under his boots and soaking through his socks. _Fuckin’ Europe._

Bucky glanced back behind him, checking for cars, before he cut across the road, hugging the line of buildings as he walked. The barracks weren’t even heated, but cutting out the wind chill would be worth something: he sped up, damp boots chafing against blistered ankles. Another gust. He squeezed his eyes shut as his throat burned, fighting on blindly through the storm. 

The camp was in view sooner than he’d expected: harsh lighting cut through the downpour, marking out tall chain-link gates. They were supposed to be being guarded, but it was miserable out. Bucky was hardly gonna report anyone.

He winced as he hauled up the latch, the cold making his hands ache, and slid inside.

Barracks lined up along one side of the base, blurry through the rain: Bucky shook out his hands and rubbed them together in a vain attempt to get the blood flowing again, then walked off towards the administration building. He wanted to see Steve again— after the past couple weeks, he’d fallen back into the routine of being near the guy, of knowing what was up with him. It had taken weeks for him to get out of that mindset when he shipped out: rest of the guys were all in the same boat, but their Steves were more Stephanies, and most of ‘em didn’t have to be too concerned about not being there to break up a street fight. Just about the threat posed by all those eligible 4F bachelors. 

Bucky fiddled with the door handle and pulled it open, savouring the rush of warm, dry air before he stepped in. No alarms sounded. What if he’d been some German spy there to infiltrate?

He shrugged off his coat, draping the dripping fabric over one arm and brushing the worst of the water out of his hair with the other as he set off down the hall. Rooms sprouted off on either side, and Bucky caught snippets of conversation from them as he walked. Little things. Didn’t make much sense without context.

“What’s that? You saying—“

“—London, dammit.”

“Hah, you think you’ve got it, you haven’t seen—“

 _Chhhhhhh_ went the static of a radio.

“All right, then, you can talk to—“

Slap, slap, squeak, went wet boots on the floor. Bucky looked in windows as he passed them, still shivering despite the heaters. God, he hated the cold.

Second-last room on the right, he hit pay dirt. Steve’s voice echoed out to him when he was still a foot away from the door. “Come on, Pegs. If they won’t approve us, then we make our team anyways. Who needs government approval?”

Peggy. “The US Army’s got a lot of protocol, and it’s all bloody ridiculous, but they’ve also got a lot of power. We’re on the same side, Steve, are you sure you want to fight them over this?”

Bucky had frozen just out of sight, up against the doorframe, listening.

“Look.” Oh, Bucky knew that _look_ , knew that tone. That tone did things to him. He could picture Steve, expression calm, palms up, words underpinned with something not threatening, exactly— more warning. “Roosevelt doesn’t know these guys. Churchill doesn’t know these guys. The people giving orders don’t know these guys! Hell, _you_ don’t know these guys. They’re something else. They deserve this shot, and so do the damn Allies, even if they don’t know it!”

Peggy’s answer was almost scolding. “Captain Rogers, I’d watch how you speak to me.”

His voice softened. “Sorry. I just— I’m not going out there with a bunch of strangers hand-picked to kill, Pegs. I’m done being the government’s puppet.”

“You’d rather go out there with six ex-POWs, one of whom doesn’t speak English, one of whom is Japanese, one of whom you clearly can’t think logically around.”

“You came _with_ me to get Bucky.”

There was a silence. Bucky bit his lip.

Peggy sighed. “It was the right thing to do. I never said it was the logical one.”

“Morita’s from Fresno.”

“I know. I’m grasping. But it would work if you didn’t know him, Steve, and you’re the one who said they don’t. You’re not going to win this one. You’re the American pride and joy, and they’re not letting you run off with a bunch of unproven misfits.”

His friend started to reply, and a quick smile played at Bucky’s lips. _Poor Peg._

But Peggy cut Steve off. “Rogers. Do you see what I’m saying? Think.”

Again, Steve tried to speak up: “They’re—"

“Shh!” 

A stretch of quiet. Bucky could imagine the confusion on Steve’s face.

“Steve,” said Peggy carefully, enunciating each syllable as it rolled off her tongue: “they are not letting you run off with a bunch of unproven misfits.”

A soft inhale.

 _Ah,_ thought Bucky. _There we go. Lightbulb._

Pause. You could almost hear the gears creaking in his friend’s brain.

Steve’s tone was different in his reply, slower. “It would be far too dangerous to… trust me to some men they’ve never seen in action.”

Peggy replied: “It certainly would be. They simply want to make sure the men you have by your side are capable—"

“Not unreasonable,” conceded Steve. “It’s entirely fair for them to want proof that the guys are good.”

“Entirely.”

“What sort of proof… exactly…do you think they’d accept?” Steve’s voice was nearly playful now.

“Oh, I’m really not sure.” Heels clicked on the floor. “Something impressive.”

“Hypothetically,” said Steve.

“Hypothetically,” said Peggy, and Bucky could hear the smirk in her voice. “I’m not really certain, but clearly we’d need to see their skills demonstrated in the same stressful environment you could expect on black-ops missions—“

“Perfectly fair,” replied Steve. 

A table creaked. Fabric brushed against fabric— Peggy hopping up on the desk, doubtless sporting an infuriating smile. “Of course, such an excursion would never be approved. No point in risking your life when there’s perfectly capable men all lined up…”

Bucky rested one hand on the sharp cladding of the doorframe, picking off a splinter.

“Thanks, Peg.”

The splinter snapped off and dropped silently to the ground. Bucky watched it fall. For a place owned by the greatest army in the world, the paint jobs were shit.

“I know it’s difficult,” said Peggy. “But it really is in all our best interests to have men out there who can get the job done.”

“Of course,” agreed Steve.

 _Goddammit_ , thought Bucky, and then he turned and walked out, not caring who heard the tap of his boots on the tile.

//

It came as a shock when Morita made a public appearance the next day. He hadn’t been in the barracks that night— so much for his whining about not getting a proper bed—and Bucky had briefly entertained the thought that Dum Dum might have gotten fed up and pushed the guy off a bridge.

Clearly not. The two of them turned up bright and early for breakfast, Morita sporting an impressive shiner, Dum Dum’s fedora askew, but both undeniably conscious.

“You walked into a plant last night,” said Bucky mildly to Morita as they waited in line.

“Did I?” 

“Yeah.”

Morita shrugged. “You guys make low alcohol tolerance out to be a bad thing, but there I was, utterly shitfaced on a budget, no hangover. Maybe I’ll even keep this gruel crap down.”

Dum Dum groaned and pulled his hat lower over his face. 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Rough night, Dugan?”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” mumbled the big man.

“Can’t hold his liquor,” exclaimed Morita gleefully. 

“I saved your life at _least_ fifteen times last night, Jim, I’m not the one who can’t—“

“Didn’t know you could count that high,” Bucky muttered.

“See, Barnes, on a normal day I’d have missed that, but right now I can hear _everything_ because it _all hurts,”_ grumbled Dum Dum, rubbing his eyes. 

Bucky held out his tin bowl for a ladleful of greasy porridge, trying not to inhale the smell as the woman behind the counter dumped it in. “See, Dugan, on a normal day I’d be a bit scared of you, but right now you’re _not intimidating_ and I will say _what I like._ ”

Morita snorted. “He’s not wrong, Ace.”

Dum Dum grunted. “Get your damn slime quick and let’s go somewhere quieter.”

“Move along,” grouched the counter lady, splattering the paste into their bowls and waving them off.

The two wandered away, leaving Bucky alone under the mess tent, turning aimlessly in a circle.

Gabe and Dernier were jabbering away off up against one of the walls of the barracks; Falsworth looking almost like he was enjoying the breakfast at a table, surrounded by a bunch of other Brits. Bucky shuffled his feet in the dirt.

“Bucky,” someone called across the compound. “Hey!”

Steve, having ditched the star-spangled getup for a plain white t-shirt that garnered him marginally less attention, waved from one of the tents. “C’mere.”

The gruel cooled in Bucky’s hands as he ambled over. “Hey, Stevie. You get breakfast yet?”

Steve shook his head, lifting the tent flap higher. “Nah. Come in. We need to talk.”

“You should eat something,” said Bucky.

A grin, newly perfect white teeth flashing in his direction. “I’m all right. Come on, you’ll like this. Right up your alley.”

Bucky smiled reluctantly, ducking under the canvas and into the diffuse yellow light of the tent. “So it involves us minding our own business, then?”

Steve slid inside behind him. “You can believe that’s your alley if you really wanna, I guess.”

“Unless you’re getting your ass beat in it,” quipped Bucky as he glanced back, fighting the urge to stretch out and arm and ruffle Steve’s hair. He probably couldn’t reach it anymore, anyways. 

The tent was small enough that its five or six occupants made it crowded: at a table in the centre, Peggy bent over a map, perfect brown curls falling into her face as she shifted a ruler across the paper. A couple of guys Bucky didn’t recognize watched her work, and the guy leaning back with his feet on the table—

Bucky grabbed a fistful of Steve’s shirt, yanking his friend closer to hiss in his ear. “Is that _Howard Stark?_ ”

Steve looked confused. “Uh. Yeah. He ran Project Rebirth, remember?”

“Are you telling me _Howard Stark’s_ the one who made you… _this_?” Bucky’s eyes were wide, incredulous. “He’s a _legend!_ ”

Howard glanced up, nodding cordially at the pair of them. The soft lighting of sun filtering through canvas smoothed his features, making him look marginally less imposing— not that that helped. “Captain. Sergeant— Barnes, is it?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Steve sighed. “Yes, this is Sergeant Barnes.”

Howard sized him up, a smirk playing at his lips, then looked to Peggy. “I’d say it was worth it, wouldn’t you? Defying authority? Breaking laws? Risking our lives?”

Peggy didn’t look away from her charting. “I would, but possibly not for the same reasons as you.”

“Come on, Pegs! Look at him!”

“Plenty of pretty men out there,” Peggy said, narrowing her eyes and sketching out a line along the length of her ruler, “who aren’t in Nazi prison camps.” Her gaze flickered up to Bucky for a second. “No offence intended. I’d go after you again in a heartbeat, Sergeant, but not because you’ve a lovely face.”

“None taken,” managed Bucky, regaining control of his vocal cords. “Uh, good morning, Agent Carter…Mr. Stark.”

Howard grinned, uncrossing his boots and recrossing them the other way, leaning back farther in his chair. “A good morning it _certainly_ is. So what’s our lovely captain told you about today’s agenda?”

Bucky blinked.

“Oh, I like this one,” said Howard to no one in particular. Then, to the soldiers watching Peggy study the map: “Get out, or I’ll send your wives pictures of the lovely Agent Carter here and tell them you were sharing a tent with her.”

They exchanged glances, clearly wondering whether he was serious, before their expressions changed from doubt to nervous panic and they scrambled out into the sun.

Steve placed a hand on the small of Bucky’s back, nudging him towards the table. “We’ve got a mission, Bucky.”

“No,” said Peggy, stepping back to examine her work, a spiderweb of red lines. “You don’t. Nobody has a mission. Any missions carried out by such an unverified, unofficial, unproven team would be utterly reckless and a public relations nightmare if anything went wrong.”

Bucky raised a hand, remembering the conversation he’d overheard last night. “Wait—”

Peggy waited.

“So the guys up top don’t trust us, yeah?” Might as well make himself look clever. Yippee for the sergeant who figured it all out on his own. “They’re not going to let us go on a mission until they’ve _seen_ us on a mission…”

Peggy smiled. “Steve, you’ve brought me a prodigy.”

The table creaked as Howard swung his legs casually back to the floor, leaning in to circle a couple of points on the map. “As a civilian, I’d just like to point out that we’ve managed to confirm Rogers’ intel on a Hydra base several miles off the front. And remark on that fact that, if I were not a civilian, it might be a lovely feather in my cap to blow it to hell.” He caught Bucky’s eye and winked.

Steve laughed, the chuckle only a little forced. “Guess it might be.”

Bucky glanced over to his friend. “When do we leave?”

“We have to ask the rest of the guys,” replied Steve, bending over the table to focus on the map. “It’s risky.”

“They’ll be in,” said Bucky. He scanned the map. “Tonight?” This, directed to Peggy.

“No,” said Peggy, the corners of her mouth curling up.

Bucky grinned, clapped Steve on the shoulder. “I’ll go talk to Morita and Dum Dum— you tell Gabe, yeah? Dunno where Falsworth went, but he’ll figure it out.”

“You should think about it, Buck.” Steve looked levelly into his eyes, icy blue vivid even in the dim light of the tent.

“Already did. Not everyone has a brain as slow as yours.”

A snort from Howard. “Not bad, Barnes.”

//

They left early. Steve had shaken Bucky awake around midnight, and the whole crew had gathered just outside the administration building by quarter after: Bucky’s pack weighed heavy on his shoulders, and he hopped on the spot, shifting it up higher.

Lights were low. The Nazis might be showing a preference for bombing civilians, but it was still shit strategy to advertise the location of your base to passing planes— shit strategy to wander off into enemy territory without backup, too, though. 

Steve’s face was shadowy in the moonlight as he glanced around the group. His voice was quiet when he spoke: “Where’s Peggy?”

Morita caught his eye. “She’ll be out in a sec. We were talking— she’s just run back in to double check some coordinates.”

“Ooooh, Rogers, better watch your back—“

A faint grin on his face, Steve raised a hand. “Save the banter. There’ll be time for it.”

Bucky fiddled with a clip on his belt, looking up at the sky. It was a cloudless night. Normally that’d have made him nervous: he was a sniper, and he knew how much more deadly war was when you could see clearly, but tonight he felt calm. Composed.

A bright crack of yellow light spilled out from the building’s door, metal creaking as Peggy slipped out. It was hard to see, but Bucky’d have sworn she was still in her heels. Did she _sleep_ in those things?

“All right, then,” said the woman, tossing her loose hair over one shoulder. “How are we?”

“Nous sommes magnifique,” whispered Dernier. “On peut aller tuer quelques soldats Nazi maintenant?”

Peggy’s expression brought to mind a mother scolding a child. “Monsieur Dernier, soyez gentil.” 

Falsworth stepped up and saluted sharply. “For king and country, eh, Carter?”

“Enough of that,” she replied, pulling him into a hug. “King and country indeed. Make the Brits proud.”

“Not as much as you do, Agent.”

“You can’t see, Falsworth, but believe me when I tell you I’m blushing. Don’t let these damn Yanks screw this up.”

Morita cut in. “’Scuse me, Pegs, but I’m offended.”

Peggy laughed. “Aw, Jim. You’re a good man, but I’m not confident you’ll do _my_ country proud.”

Bucky felt, more than saw, the guy shrug. “That’s fair. See you on the other side, I guess.”

“Sounds like you don’t think we’re coming back,” smirked Bucky, elbowing Morita in the side. “Come on, pal, we aren’t POWs this time. And we’ve got the British on our side!”

Steve stepped forwards, letting a gloved hand fall heavy on Peggy’s shoulder. “Thank you for this, Agent.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” said the woman. “Like I said. We want the best men out there. Just get it done, we save some lives, and nobody loses their job.”

“Seriously, Peg.” He smiled, held her eyes for a moment. “Thanks.”

“Go!” declared Peggy, pointing towards the gates. “Before Churchill gets wind of this!”

Steve nodded, waved the men on. “All right. Let’s go.” They marched in a clump towards the fence, steps soft on the dirt.

Bucky hung back a moment, watching them move in silence.

Peggy spoke up again. “Watch out for him, Barnes.”

He looked at her, beautiful features calm, composed. “I always do.”

Reaching back, Peggy slid a handgun out of her belt and placed it in Bucky’s palm. “You’re not always going to be in the trees. Aim for the chest. Two solid hits, then the next man.”

Bucky curled his fingers around the grip. “I know how to shoot.”

Peggy sighed. “Do good.”

The weapon felt strange in his hand: he hadn’t held a pistol since basic. “Thanks, Carter.”

Then she was gone.

Then there was quiet.

Steve glanced back as Bucky jogged to catch up with the group, slowing his pace to let his friend take up residence to his left. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” said Bucky. “Carter just wanted to give me her pistol.” He held it up. “One of ‘em, anyways. We still got a copter coming for us?”

“Due at 0200. Bit of a hike first, though.”

The motley crew marched silently through the streets, steps light on the pavement as concrete became dirt and dirt became grass: moonlight glinted off the blades, making the meadows shimmer as the men pushed their way through. Bucky tucked the handgun into his belt, resting a palm absent-mindedly on the butt of the grip. He heard a grunt and a muffled curse behind him as Falsworth stumbled. “Bloody groundhogs—“

“Shh,” went Gabe.

“What, y’think there’s Nazis listening? We’re miles from the front.”

Bucky fell back, voice soft. “We’re not worried about Nazis. Allies catch wind of this and we’ll get court-martialed. Endangering a national icon with our _incompetence_ and all.”

Steve didn’t break pace or look over his shoulder as he called quietly back: “Guess you shouldn’t let them catch wind of it, then.”

That’s why they’d been walking so long. No witnesses out here, no civilians to tattle to the authorities. Under the radar. That was the whole point of this: under the radar until they had a success under their belts.

Bucky’d had Steve back for a month at most, and the guy was already pulling him into trouble.

Had to admit-- he’d missed it.

Shrubs were overshadowed by trees, stars blocked out by tangled branches, grassy plain morphing into towering forest. They slipped easily into into the woods, dark jackets blending into the pitch of the night.

It was a while longer: forest to field to road to forest again, and they walked, and they walked, and eventually they came upon a clearing and in the clearing they came upon a helicopter.

Steve’s gloved hand went up when they were still twenty feet away, and the men froze. Bucky scanned the area, thumb hooked around the strap of his rifle. It was the same terrain they’d been marching for hours. The only new variable was the copter—

“Sikorsky,” called Jones. “This is it.”

“As opposed to us having come across the _other_ illicit army helicopter hanging out in this _precise_ patch of Allied woods,” muttered Morita out of the corner of his mouth.

Steve ignored him. “Let’s go, then.”

It wasn’t much like any helicopter Bucky had seen before, but he trusted Gabe. “Small door,” muttered Morita, bumping his shoulder jokingly on his way past. “Don’t hit your head.”

“I know how to duck, shorty.” Bucky retorted. “Talk to Dum Dum.”

“Rude to comment on a lady’s height, Barnes,” smirked the big man as they neared the machine and their eyes adjusted to the shadow. “I’ll fit.”

In the cockpit, Bucky could just make out the faint silhouette of a pilot. Dim light glowed out from the dashboard as they reached forwards to flick a switch— the field was suddenly flooded with light as the rotors began to spin. Steve turned to look at them and yelled over the thumping din. “IN!”

“WAY TO FLY UNDER THE RADAR, HUH!” hollered Dum Dum.

Bucky waited for the rest of the men to wiggle through the small door before climbing in himself, slamming the hatch shut with a grunt and rubbing his stinging eyes. The sound was just as deafening in here: only difference was that you could feel the vibrations all the way up your back and into your teeth.

From his spot leaning against one of the walls, Dernier grinned. “Eet’s a bit… loud.”

“YOU FINALLY SAY SOMETHING IN ENGLISH, AND IT’S THAT?” bellowed Morita.

“IL DIT QU’IL EST FIER DE TON COMMANDE DE LA LANGUE ANGLAISE!” Gabe roared in translation.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” howled Dum Dum as the shaking intensified and the floor shifted. Liftoff.

Bucky glanced over to where Steve sat beside him, seemingly unaffected by the noise. His friend smirked and pointed to the navy headphones over his ears. _Behind you_ , he mouthed.

Bucky narrowed his eyes and snatched the headphones off the rack above his head, dropping them over his ears.

A guffaw replaced the roar of the rotors, then Steve’s voice: “You really thought they’d put us in here without ear protection?”

“Were you gonna let us all lose our hearing?” grumbled Bucky, elbowing Morita and pointing to where another pair sat on the rack. “Not gonna follow your orders too well if we can’t tell what you’re saying.”

“Could be the first all-Deaf regiment in the U.S. military,” suggested Steve. “Remember back when I could hardly hear and you learned sign language?”

“Remember this one?” Bucky inquired politely, flicking the back of his fingers out from under his chin in the other man’s direction. “I do!”

Steve laughed. “Don’t mock the language, jerk. It’s a culture.”

Morita tugged the headphones on, joining the conversation and kicking Falsworth to get his attention. “Y’know my mother’s Deaf?” Falsworth looked at him, irritated until he noticed the headgear and grabbed for a pair. “Yeah,” Morita continued. “Well, hard of hearing. Kinda grew up with a bit of a mishmash of English and ASL.”

“No Japanese?” asked Dum Dum, adjusting his own headphones. 

“Look, Ace, I’ve never even been to Japan. We’ve been over this.”

Dernier was the last person to notice the headgear. He rolled his eyes as he snapped them over his ears, and Bucky could read the ‘ _typical_ ’ on his face. “Dum Dum, tu n’pense pas que peut-être apprendre une autre langue sera bon pour ton pauvre, faible cerveau?”

Jones sighed over the microphone. “You guys know he understands everything you say, right?”

“Ben... quoi?” asked Dernier, an innocent look on his face.

“Shut it, buddy, we all know you speak English.”

“T’es rien qu’un p’tit connard, Jones,” Dernier grumbled.

“You speak English?” Morita inquired.

“God save the queen,” said Dernier with a heavy accent.

Falsworth punched him in the shoulder. “Damn right. Is that the only thing you know besides ‘it’s a bit loud?’ Because that’s a lovely vocabulary right there.”

Bucky looked up at the ceiling of the helicopter compartment, observing the visible welded seam. Not too encouraging. He was suddenly glad for the lack of windows.

Steve waved for quiet, and the chatter died down quickly. 

“Right,” he said. “The flight should only be an hour or two. We can discuss next steps once we land. I’ve been talking with Carter—”

A chorus of _ooooooohs_ echoed around the cabin, like they were back in kindergarten. Bucky felt a poke in the shoulder and turned to see Morita offering a sympathetic smile.

 _Seriously?_ Bucky mouthed.

Morita smirked.

Regaining control, Steve continued. “I’ve been talking with Carter, and we have an excellent plan of attack drafted… we take HYDRA, she takes on the American government.”

“I feel bad for the government,” Jones replied.

Steve smiled. “You’re not alone in that.”

The copter hit a patch of rough air, jolting the men: Bucky gasped, then regretted it as everyone laughed. Steve ignored it. 

“Good times,” muttered Morita.

The floor shook under them again, this time violently as the craft dropped six feet. Even Dum Dum yelped in surprise. Bucky was jolted down to the front of the compartment, crashing into Steve. “Sorry--”

Steve winced. “It’s fine.” 

“Crap pilot,” grumbled Falsworth, rubbing a bruised shin.

As the brief hit of adrenaline faded, Bucky shifted away from Steve, shuffling back to his original seat. The metal was cold on his hands, and just rough enough to sting when the copter lurched again-- palms dragged with a squeal on the ground as he slid back to where he’d started.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Steve, wiggling an arm loose and draping it over his friend’s shoulder. “Hurt less for both of us if you just stay here. I don’t mind.”

Bucky paused.

“Relax, Buck,” Steve grinned. “I’m not gonna explode.”

It was forty degrees in the compartment, but Steve was warm, and it was all he could do not to curl up like the two of them had used to in the heaterless winters. Bucky settled for letting the occasional bounce of the helicopter slide him closer a millimeter at a time.

The rest of the men were quiet after that: wasn’t much to say. Even Dum Dum wasn’t talking, for once, just fiddling idly with a button on his jacket. Some of them drifted off: Morita’s shallow breathing slowed on Bucky’s right, soft snoring staticky in the headphones. Across the cabin, Falsworth’s eyes were closing too, and Steve’s warmth beside Bucky lulled him into a sense of security. It was nice. Peaceful.

Not a word he’d thought he’d be using to describe this particular trip.

They jumped around four. Bucky had never used a parachute, but Steve had, and the straps weren’t too complicated. “It’s not so hard,” the taller guy said over the headset, clicking a buckle into place. “One, hold on. Two, don’t forget to pull the cord. Three, repeat step one.”

“I got it, Stevie.”

“Don’t die.” A smirk danced across Steve’s features. “Please.”

“Aww. Does Captain America actually _care?_ ” 

“Couldn’t live without you,” replied Steve lightly, jokingly-- a playful tone, and nobody but Bucky caught the note of honesty in the crackle of the headphones.

Steve reached up to grab a strap on the roof. To everyone, now: “Hatch opens in thirty seconds. It’s a copter jump, not a plane, so we’re coming in low— chutes out as soon as you’re clear of the rotors. Twenty seconds.” He glanced down at his watch, a casual action. “Eighteen. Again, since we’re not in a plane, the pilot’s cutting back the instant we’re clear. Do _not_ miss your slot, or you’re not coming. Fifteen seconds.”

Bucky felt adrenaline start to flood his veins as Steve continued. “I want Dugan, Dernier, Jones, Morita, Falsworth, Barnes, and then me last. Let’s go.” He took a breath, grabbed hold of a foot-long lever on the wall, and heaved it down: the side of the helicopter cracked open, and the trees were suddenly visible below in a shaky blur of black. Air rushed in, maybe out— was was the difference? It was still chaos; furious chaos.

Dugan pulled off his headphones, tossing them nonchalantly to one side and sliding towards the door with his fedora in his teeth. Steve held up three fingers so Dum Dum could make out his count over the roar of the wind and the thud of the rotors: sharp gusts tore at Bucky’s face, hair, clothes. “Two. One,” barked Steve to the ears of everyone but the man he was counting for: Dum Dum’s jacket flew out behind him as he dropped through the hatch, limbs outstretched in a perfect X.

Dernier slid through after him, then Jones, the duo tumbling in tandem: Morita crouched on the threshold, pulled his chute tighter with a rough tug, and hopped neatly into the open air. Falsworth skidded out haphazardly, but straightened up, and Bucky watched his parachute unfold— textbook.

Steve held up another three fingers, dropped one— Bucky pulled off his headset— two— he edged forwards, pretending the ground was just feet away— _three._

He pushed off from the helicopter and fell like a stone.

The wind sliced at every inch of his skin, a million knives slashing at anything exposed: Bucky gasped for breath, opted not to at all as he spun towards the ground. The force was incredible, and this low, he could see how fast he was falling—

_Don’t forget to pull the cord—_

—And then the parachute was out, dark fabric on a dark sky above a dark forest hiding dark people. The straps dug hard into Bucky’s thighs, but he breathed a rough sigh of relief at the deceleration, taking a second to properly look down. The trees bordered on what looked like a wheat field, or what would have been a wheat field in peacetime: now it was neglected. Lack of hands could make a desert out of Eden. Once-rich crops drooped sickly, dry, crushed in patches like someone or something had already launched an assault on them. The stems snapped as Bucky hit the ground; he ducked, rolled, gritting his teeth at the bruising impact and the slash of the plants at his face.

He came to a stop. Heard his chute settle lightly onto the ground behind him.

Another crashing crackle: Steve, dropping into the landing with startling grace. His pack was off before Bucky even had time to stand: a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and he might have imagined it, but he swore he felt the other on his waist as Steve pulled him to his feet.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” replied Bucky, and he told himself he was only out of breath from the fall.

Steve watched for a second to make sure Bucky was on his way to untangling himself from the cables, then turned to see where the other five men were cutting themselves loose. The septet had landed in a neat line across the field, about twenty feet apart. “They look all right to you?”

Bucky shrugged the now-empty pack off his shoulders, tossing it to one side. “Yeah. They’ll be fine.”

“Let’s go,” said Steve, eyes glinting in the starlight. “Sun’ll be up soon.”

“We could probably cover some decent ground during the day,” Bucky commented. He squinted off at the forest bordering an edge of the field. “Stay under the canopy, move slow. Germans aren’t going to be looking for a small team. All we’d have to look out for is snipers, and we could switch to night maneuvers by the time we’re near the base.”

Steve furrowed his brow. “That could work. I don’t need as much sleep, but--”

“I feel fine, Steve.” He did. Barely drowsy at all. Awake enough to pick out the way Steve’s eyelashes flickered tiny shadows across his face when he blinked. Awake enough to know he probably shouldn’t.

Morita got back to them first, hair a mess from the fall. “We all right, esteemed leaders?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” said Bucky before Steve had a chance to. “Are the other guys okay?”

“Dum Dum’s bitching about losing his hat, so he’s fine. Everyone else is moving-- I assume that means no _excessively_ traumatic injuries.”

“You’re a medic,” said Steve, suppressing a smile despite the situation. “Is that your educated opinion?”

Morita snapped a salute. “Yes, Captain, yes _sir._ ”

A rustle of stalks as Jones shuffled up to the group, followed by Falsworth: Dum Dum, having recovered his hat, perched it atop his cranium at a jaunty angle as he sauntered towards them. Dernier was last to rejoin them, and he did so with a string of what Bucky assumed were French curse words.

“I swear to God,” groaned Jones, “I’m going to start translating everything that comes out of your mouth if you don’t watch your language. Then what’ll Cap think?”

Bucky snorted, shooting Steve a sideways glance. “Oh, pal. You have no idea.”

“Shut up, asshole,” replied Steve.

“Let’s go,” said Bucky.

//

The forest cover was dense enough that they decided to risk a campfire: they weren’t anywhere near an airfield, and it was unlikely that the base they were targeting would be sending patrols out this far. Steve unfurled a map next to the fire, dropping a couple of stones to weigh down the corners as he settled himself beside it in the dim glow. “All right. So, this place is hardly HYDRA central, but it’s not going to be a pushover, either— I’ve got faith in us, though.”

“Bien, si c’est ça que tu veut croire,” shrugged Dernier. 

Bucky glanced over at Gabe, who sighed. “He says... he says he has total confidence in Cap’s judgement and agrees completely. Should we go over the plan again?”

“That’s why he got the map out,” Bucky said. 

“Don’t be a smartarse, Barnes,” Falsworth scolded. “Go on, Rogers.”

Steve smirked. “Good to know I have your authorization.” He pulled a stick of charcoal out of the coals and dusted it off, marking lines on the page. “It’s a multi-pronged attack, not complicated. Dum Dum and I are taking point, here—” a star marked the compound entrance— “We’re all waiting to the west while Dernier blows the gates, then cut back to our positions. Bucky, I want you with Jones. Get up on the wall, stay low.” Steve looked up. “Leg shots are best. Shoulders are acceptable. Watch our asses.”

 _Just like always,_ Bucky thought but didn’t say.

“Gabe’s got smoke bombs for panic. Those are going to draw troops away from the other two groups.” Steve shaded the area lightly and crossed it out, fire crackling softly as the men waited for him to finish. “Once there’s just a skeleton crew on the east edge, Dernier, Morita— you hop the fence beside Bucky and come at the gate from the other side. Get through the troops they’ll have there and rejoin us.”

“We’ll have your back,” assured Morita.

Satisfied, Steve looked back to Gabe and Dernier. “You two cut back around front after your job’s done-- Jones, we need your shooting in particular, so be quick. Here’s our big target,” he clarified, circling a tower in the center of the compound. “Bucky, you need to disable the crew they have up top, then we come together and storm the bottom. Unless it’s life or death, we’re not killing, clear?”

Dum Dum rolled his eyes. “Come on, Cap.”

Bucky winced as Steve’s eyes narrowed. _Here it comes._

“Dugan, human lives have validity beyond the side you pick in war. We’re not taking any we don’t have to tomorrow, and if you’ve got a problem with that, get out of my camp.”

“What if we accidentally get one of them in the shoulder and they bleed out?” inquired Morita brightly. “Will we be court-martialed?”

There was a long pause before Steve let out something between a sigh and a laugh. “Just aim away from vital organs, all right?”

“Is the dick considered a vital organ?” Bucky asked politely. “Askin’ for a friend.”

“Buck, please.”

“Yeah, all right,” he conceded. “I think we get it.”

Dernier raised his eyebrows. “J’suis tout pour l’ideé-- allons-y, je veut bien la tête d’un gars allemand pour rapporter à la France!”

Gabe sighed. “He says he’s very excited and greatly values human life. We’re ready, Cap. The Allies’ll be blown away.”

Steve looked back at the map and took a deep breath. “All right, then. All right.”

“Hey.” Bucky reached across the circle and punched his friend in the shoulder. “We’ll kick their ugly asses tomorrow, and that’s a promise, punk.”

“Jerk,” Steve said softly. 

“Aww,” mumbled Morita. “Cute.”

Dum Dum rolled his eyes. “Great to have that sorted. Next on the list is… dinner? Morita?”

“Not your chef, Ace, ask Dernier--”

The Frenchman looked up. “Nous parlons toujours des têtes allemands, oui?”

Gabe groaned. “I’m going to bed.”

“Night,” Falsworth said. “Get your own food, Dum Dum, I think even you can handle a can opener.”

“Sure I can, but that doesn’t mean I want to,” the big man grouched as he dug through his bag. “Some of us have got to save the country.”

“And some of us have got to open cans,” quipped Morita. “You, in this case.”

//

They didn’t sleep much that night. Dernier volunteered to keep watch so the rest of them could catch a bit of rest, but nobody really did, and it wasn’t his whistling that kept them up. 

Bucky floated in a half-dazed stupor, numb enough to ignore the rocks under his sleeping bag— not enough to miss Morita taking over for Dernier— and definitely not enough to miss Steve clambering outside to where the fire still burned.

“Morita.” The words were muffled by the canvas.

“Hey, Cap,” came an answering yawn.

“You should be asleep.”

“So should you. Gotta look good for your girl.”

“Peggy isn’t anyone’s girl.”

There was a snort. “You got that one right.” Something scraped, rustled. The flames brightened.

“You know, Jim, we don’t talk enough.”

“It’s war, pal, nobody talks enough.”

“Really. Got a girl back in Fresno? Family? What’d you do before the war?” The tone was genuinely curious, but not probing. 

A long pause.

“I falsified my enlistment papers, if it’s hot gossip you want.”

Steve laughed. “Y’know what? I did too.”

“Just a hunch, but I probably messed with them a little more than you did.”

“They designated me 4-F. Three times.”

 _Four,_ Bucky thought to himself.

“They designated me something else.”

“No category could ever could hold you, Morita.”

There was a sigh, and the creak of a canteen being opened. “What about you, Cap? You got a girl back home? Peggy got someone to be jealous of?”

Steve shifted his weight absentmindedly. “No girl. Just Bucky.”

“Hah,” went Morita. “Should Peggy be jealous of him, then?”

“Not sure I like what you’re insinuating, Jim.”

Another pause. Bucky screwed his eyes shut and clamped his hands over his ears like he was five years old again. _Amazing_.

Even more amazing was that he could still hear them.

“Can’t you take a joke?” said Morita, the smirk audible in his voice.

Steve laughed. “Sure I can, pal.”

“What if I told you I didn’t have a girl back home?”

“Plenty of single men in this country.”

Morita snorted. “Go back to bed, Cap. You need the sleep.” Bucky heard the thump as he tossed another log on the fire, the sizzle as it caught.

“Stay safe, Jim.” 

“I’ve got Captain America on my side, how could I not?”

Steve crawled back into the tent quietly, obviously trying not to wake Bucky up. There was a soft wince and a curse-- he’d probably knelt on a rock or something. Ground here wasn’t the softest.

Bucky took a breath and spoke, hardly more than a whisper. “Why’d you have to join the army?”

Steve went still, silent for a moment before he replied, voice even softer. “We’re a long way from Brooklyn, aren’t we.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

A rustle of fabric. Steve reached out to rest a hand lightly on Bucky’s shoulder. “This is about more than us,” he whispered.

“I know,” murmured Bucky. 

“Everything changes, Buck.”

_I know, but I never thought you would._

“G’night, Steve.”

//

He dreamt about a time four years ago when he thought the world was ending.

In reality, he’d been fine. Earth spun on. His heart beat out a steady rhythm. His eyes saw and his ears heard and his lungs brought in breaths that were slow and steady. He was safe, secure, okay.

But Bucky wasn’t the extent of his own world, hadn’t been for years, and who gives a damn about Australia when the rest of the planet is crashing down into the sea?

He lost Steve’s biting wit first, snarky remarks fading into a haze of fever, devolving into clipped sentences that didn’t waste precious breath. Next to go was his posture. The way he carried himself-- _damn,_ the boy was tiny. A runt, really, but he walked like he was 6’2 and 240 pounds, confidence (cockiness) in every step he took, and it was beautiful and terrifying all at the same time, and seeing him slumped over and gasping for air never got any fucking easier.

Next to go was the glint in Steve’s eyes: every other time, he’d kept the fire in them, kept his gaze sharp even as his body gave out-- three weeks into this hell, and there was no money for antibiotics, and Steve coughed up mucus stained a deep red by his blood, nothing left on his face but exhaustion.

And then the fever spiked, and what little was left of his Stevie burned up like a scrap of paper in an incinerator. There were no words anymore, not even ones he had to fight to choke out. Not a syllable.

Just the rasp of breath, and the creaks of the cheap bedframe, and once in a while-- on a good day, when the rigors let up for one beautiful minute, if he had the energy for it-- a cough.

Steven Grant Rogers was dying.

He was dying.

He was dying.

And Bucky had known it was going to happen. Steve was broke. He was sickly. And save Bucky-- not much better off-- there was nobody in his corner. Nobody.

They’d met in grade school, and Bucky’d realized in a week that the kid was going to be gone long before his time: they got closer, and Steve missed day after day of classes, and Bucky got used to wondering _is this it?_ Wondering if anybody would think to tell him the day Steve slipped away. The day his fragile frame couldn’t keep up with his beautiful mind anymore, so they decided neither could go on.

This time, Steve had come and found him a day or two after the coughing started, leaning on the doorframe to Bucky’s apartment to hold himself up. He hadn’t said a word. He’d hardly had the breath for it-- he just looked levelly into Bucky’s eyes, and they both knew that this was going to be the last time.

“I don’t want to die alone,” he’d managed that night, before the sickness got to his brain.

“You’re not dying, punk,” Bucky had replied flatly, tapping a couple of precious aspirin out of the bottle and into his hand. 

“Yes, I am.” A silence. “Bucky.”

Hot fingers around his wrist, barely spanning its circumference, weak in their grip but undeniably insistent. “ _Bucky.”_

Bucky glanced at his friend, held his piercing gaze. Said nothing.

“James Buchanan Barnes, I’m fucking _dying,_ and you don’t have to say the word but I need you to stay with me while I do it-- I’m not going to be me in a day. I’m not going to be me in a week. Tell me _now,_ while I can still hear you-- tell me I’m not going to be alone.”

Was that sweat running down Steve’s face? Was it the fever turning his eyes red?

His voice was raspy. “I can _do_ it. It’s okay.”

_Don’t you fucking cry, Barnes._

“But I can’t--” Cough. “--do it alone.”

Oh, Bucky was crying. Both of them were. Only one heart would beat its last, and yet _two_ lives were ending, and when Steve left there would be no corpse and mourner in the room: only two shells of boys, one who’d never wake again and one who’d never sleep.

The aspirin tablets clattered from Bucky’s hand to the floor as he shook with a silent sob, struggling to breathe, thoughts blurred by grief and by pain and by love. _You get ten seconds. Ten seconds of this. Ten seconds of selfishness, and then you take a breath and you_ tell him _he doesn’t have to._

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

And then Bucky inhaled, shaky. Lowered himself to the mattress beside Steve, feeling him burning up even through the space between them, sensing somehow that this might be the last thing Steve would hear, really hear, from him for a very long while, and whispered:

“Till the end of the line,”

with tears pouring down his face, and the bottle of aspirin clenched uselessly in his hand.

He remembered it. He remembered every second of it, still, and he’d never wanted to be there again, never wanted to live that again, but now here he was-- and he knew it was a dream but it was still Steve and he was still dying and Bucky sucked in another a lungful of air and said three words he hadn’t said back then, three words that were really just a paraphrase of the six he had.

He said them, and they were louder than they should have been in the small room. But this was a dream. This was a dream. 

Steve would survive, had survived, and this was a dream, and Bucky said the words again and again and again and he held Steve close as he shook and coughed and _fought_ with every fiber of his being to stay just a minute longer, just a second, just a moment.

_POLICE REPORT_

_filed 12 JANUARY 1938_

_officer on duty SGT. ALEXANDER NATHAN HILL_

_offence BURGLARY COMMITTED AT BROOKLYN PHARMACY-- STOLEN GOODS: MEDICATION PRIMARILY PENICILLIN VALUED AT ~$10_

_offender UNIDENTIFIED_

_investigation ONGOING_

_At 2:31 AM, pharmacy owners heard sounds of glass breaking from apartment above shop and contacted emergency services immediately. Police arrived on scene to find several locks on drug cabinets broken and multiple vials of antibiotic fluid missing. No narcotics or other restricted substances were stolen and the theft is currently being considered an isolated incident._

//

Morita didn’t switch out with anyone for the rest of the early morning. He kept watch through the sunrise and for an hour after, waking the rest of the crew just slightly later than he should have. Nobody complained. Fitful as the sleep might have been, it was still sleep.

Bucky had been awake a few minutes already before Morita stuck his head into the tent with an uncharacteristically soft “Rise and shine.” The sun glowed through the canvas: it was be a clear day. Good for straight shooting, but unfortunately that went for both sides.

Steve was gone, bedroll neatly fastened where he’d been asleep. Morita noticed Bucky’s glance at the space and spoke up. “He went for a walk. Said he needed to get his thoughts in order.”

“We’re in Nazi Germany,” said Bucky blearily. “He went for a _walk?_ ”

Breakfast was crap, but it was still better than the gruel they’d had yesterday on base. It wasn’t warm out, but it wasn’t cold either, so the lack of a hot meal wasn’t too distressing-- plus, the biscuits weren’t half bad.

Dum Dum polished his pack off in three minutes flat and grabbed another cookie from Morita without asking. “You guys ever wonder what they’re gonna think of us back home?”

Gabe shrugged. “Depends if we succeed or not.”

“Patriots,” said Bucky, “or idiots.”

Falsworth snorted. “You’re a cheery one, Barnes.”

Bucky laughed. “I’m _right._ ”

“You are that,” Dum Dum shrugged. “I’d rather be remembered as the former, so can we try not to fuck this up too bad?”

Morita pulled another ration pack out of Dum Dum’s bag and opened it. “Yum.”

“That’s my _lunch!”_

“That was my _breakfast,_ Ace!”

“I’m going to get Steve.” Bucky shoved his empty MRE envelope back into his rucksack, standing up and stretching. “You guys can break camp.”

“Dunno if he wants you to go get him,” Morita said, handing Dum Dum back his food now that he’d made his point. 

Bucky shrugged and hefted his bag onto his shoulders. “Too bad. You see where he went?”

“North, I think,” said Gabe helpfully. “Don’t get shot.”

He found Steve a ways into the forest, sitting alone on a fallen tree. Frost dappled the bushes and moss around them in a warning of cold to come: winter would be here soon. Maybe the war would end tomorrow, or maybe they’d keep fighting through the months of ice-- and maybe through the ones that would come after that, and after that. More tumbles out of autumn. Lives falling as leaves did; again, again, again.

“Hey, Rogers.”

Steve didn’t turn around. “Hey, Barnes.” Quietly.

“You all right?” _Stupid question. Dammit, Bucky._

A sigh. “I’m fine.”

Bucky stepped over the log and settled himself beside Steve. “Sure.”

Silence.

A squirrel chittered furiously at them from a nearby conifer.

“I miss you,” said Steve out of nowhere, and his voice was clear and strong and honest in the quiet of the trees. 

Bucky took a breath, meant to reply, curled his tongue around the words before he realized he had none to say.

Steve laughed: short, sharp, dry. Oddly cheerful. Oddly hopeless. “Been thinking about what I said last night. Long way from Brooklyn.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said with a halfhearted smile. 

“Sometimes I wish it hadn’t happened either.”

Bucky looked off into the forest. “Like you said, this is about more than us.”

“I was saying it to myself as much as you,” said Steve, closing his eyes.

“Fuck you,” replied Bucky, but there was no bite to the words. “You’re so _good,_ and it’s going to kill you one day.”

“We should go,” muttered Steve. “You shouldn’t have come after me.”

“Too bad,” Bucky said, standing and holding out a hand. “What goes around comes around.”

Steve grabbed Bucky’s hand and went to pull himself up; Bucky dug in his heels, still surprised by the weight, as Steve straightened up and stopped, facing him from just a couple of inches away.

“You’re bigger than the last time I did that,” said Bucky numbly, fingers still locked around Steve’s, eyes meeting in the space between them.

Blood thumped in his ears: _ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum,_ but apart from his heart’s incessant ticking it felt like he was frozen; Steve’s expression was unreadable and Bucky had no idea what _he_ looked like but he prayed it wasn’t how he felt.

Steve took a single breath, a short one, half a lungful.

Bucky didn’t breathe at all.

A breeze whistled through the branches above them.

And then something happened that Bucky didn’t quite catch, something a little too fast or a little too slow, and suddenly Steve’s hands were on his waist and their faces were an inch apart and Steve’s eyes glistened icy in the sunlight.

“Fuck Brooklyn,” growled Bucky, and he reached up and pulled Steve roughly into a kiss.

And time paused.

Or maybe it sped up; maybe it just shifted on its axis, but something clicked and something changed and Steve’s fingers dug into his hips: it was exactly like kissing a girl, only it wasn’t, because the hands on him were Steve’s, his Steve, and the taste in his mouth was Steve and the faint smell of blood, hell, that was Steve too-- had Bucky ever known the guy to not be bleeding? No, he hadn’t, not really, but god, that didn’t matter now. Chapped lips stinging, he reached up to tangle his fingers in Steve’s hair.

He could feel the beat of Steve’s heart through his fingertips, taste the stew they’d had for dinner on his breath as it caught, fingers tightening on Bucky’s waist. Something electric reverberated down Bucky’s spine, and he gasped, squeezing his hand shut involuntarily and tugging Steve’s hair. “Sorry—”

“Shut it,” Steve replied in a rush of hot breath, pulling him back in. 

And shut it Bucky did, for there were better things to do than think.

Steve’s exhalations were hot against his lips, urgent; calloused fingers tangled with the hem of Bucky’s jacket, and muscles shifted under his hands as they slid down to Steve’s hips. Steve’s breath hitched, and his own fingers tugged Bucky closer, catching the man’s pockets and unceremoniously crashing them together.

 _One,_ and Steve’s hands slid under the canvas of his jacket, hot on Bucky’s back, _two, three,_ and Bucky’s teeth caught on Steve’s lip, eyes squeezed shut like the world really would grind to a halt if he couldn’t see it; like he could stay here forever-- _four, five, six, seven,_ a shuddering breath, _eight—_

“Steve, I—”

“Yeah?” He backed off ever-so-slightly, maybe an inch between them, close enough that Bucky could still feel every movement. “Are you—”

“I thought—”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

“You _punk—_ ”

“BARNES!” came a shout from through the trees, and Steve pushed Bucky gently away, ran fingers through his hair, took a deep breath— _fuck._ “We’re coming,” he called.

Bucky just stood there.

“Well, hurry it up, because Dum Dum’s threatening to assume command!”

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, opened them, clapped Bucky on the shoulders. “I--”

“Yeah,” said Bucky, heart racing. “Like you said. We should go.”

“We’re going to talk about this,” Steve stated matter-of-factly.

“Are we?”

“Yes.”

“Not now.”

“Obviously.”

“What if,” said Bucky, “you die out there today?”

“I’m Captain America. I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“Sure.”

“You don’t have your helmet.”

Steve’s hands fell to his sides. “It’s not my helmet.”

“Right, it belongs to the _other_ Captain America.”

“If I have to be their pawn,” said Steve, “I’m not wearing their face to do it.”

//

The explosion would have knocked Bucky over if he hadn’t already been flat on his stomach: as it was, the vibration dug through his earplugs and screamed into his skull with a pounding _boom._ Steve’s gloved hand tightened on his wrist, and glancing over, Bucky caught a grimace of pain— serum didn’t make him immune to shock waves, then.

Morita rolled across the packed dirt of the path, snapping his fingers loudly beside Bucky’s ear to check for hearing loss. Cringing, Bucky nodded: Steve waved Morita’s attempts off, stumbling to his feet and pointing towards the source of the noise. “We gotta move.”

Bucky touched his friend’s shoulder. “Take a second. They’re not gonna recover any faster than us.”

“We need the advantage.”

Morita frowned, grabbing Steve’s earlobe unceremoniously and yanking it down to his eye level. “Cap, did you _not wear earplugs_? You wanna be able to hear Peggy’s sweet nothings or not?” 

Steve gave a weak smile. “Come on, Jim, time to move.”

Bucky squinted after him as he stumbled off, then looked back at Morita. 

“With all due respect, Barnes,” the man muttered, “he’s an idiot.”

“With all due respect,” grumbled Bucky, “I know.”

They hadn’t bombed the base itself: Dernier had set the explosives just short of the gates, enough to hurt and panic but not kill. The fence was mangled, and a clear hole became visible through the smoke as the men neared. Steve glanced back at the crew and nodded. _Okay._

Bucky cut left, ignoring the nagging feeling of worry at the base of his skull. The plan was working fine, but then, the plan had involved hearing protection.

Jones jogged up to his side, tapping Bucky on the shoulder to let him know he was there and matching his pace as they slid along the west wall. From inside, yelps of surprise were becoming shouts of warning. Steve was in.

“Over the top,” hissed Jones, glancing up at the razor wire. “Go.”

Bucky took a deep breath, stepped back, and ran at the wall: one boot scraped on the concrete as he scrambled for the top, a second explosion inside the compound sending a quiver through the ground. His hands scrambled for purchase, finding only the wire: an edge stabbed deep into Bucky’s hand, and he yelled out. “Fuck!”

Blood trickled silently down his wrist as Jones scrambled up the wall beside him, grabbing the concrete. “Shit, Bucky—”

“I’m fine,” Bucky winced, a jolt of pain lancing up his arm as he pulled his palm free of the blade. “It’s not my trigger hand, I’m fine, let’s go—”

From inside, there was the sound of gunshots: Jones grimaced. “Alright, alright. Watch the wire.”

“I _know,_ ” Bucky hissed. He stepped lightly up onto the top of the wall and over the coils. “You watch it.”

Jones slid down and off the corrugated metal of the barracks roof, landing solidly on two feet and sparing Bucky a split second’s glance before hefting his gun and heading off to rejoin the team. Bucky’s hand twinged, and he wiped off the blood on his pants. Damn Nazis and their damn fences.

The layout of the place was simple, and even through the chaos of the fight, it was easy for Bucky to make his way across rooftops. His feet fell silently on metal and concrete, slipping unnoticed along the edge of the compound until he reached the central tower: everyone near the bottom was making a screaming run for the gates, by the look of it. But a solid six silhouettes huddled together at the top of the building, distorted by distance and the glass.

Bucky’s rifle, swung across his back, jabbed his shoulder as he squinted up at the tower. He had some relative shelter in his current position, crouched behind a chimney. Another explosion shook the building, the sound grinding into Bucky’s bones— _dammit, Dernier, not now!_ Six people. How fast could he shoot?

How fast could he shoot without killing? It was a bad angle, and nonlethal shots were tricky… no chests. No abdomen. No big target.

There was a shout of pain, a curse— English— it lasted only a second but to Bucky it took years, and the gun was in his hands before he had a second to think. He was standing, and there was a _crack_ and the shattering of glass and then the first man fell. One. Two. _Crack. Crack._ Four. He exhaled, long and slow, sighted along the shaft of the gun as the conflict around him faded into the background. _Click-crack-click-BANG._

Six.

_Was it Dum Dum? Was it Gabe?_

_Was it Steve?_

The roof was metal here too, and Bucky’s bleeding palm left a bright streak of red on its cold surface as he skidded down to the packed earth: the shout wasn’t even an echo at this point, but it didn’t matter. He had to move. Had to--

A hand on his arm, gripping tight to his elbow, yanking him back into the shadows as a fresh wave of gunfire started. Adrenaline flooded down to the tips of his fingers and Bucky tried to grab for his gun…

Steve’s voice. “It’s me! Watch it.”

“Steve,” hissed Bucky, battle stress choking up his words. 

“We got bad intel,” said Steve, ducking into shelter behind a bin. “There’s more guards than we thought, and prisoners--” the sound of an explosion cut him off, glass shattering with a _crash_ beside them. “Fuck!”

Bucky gritted his teeth. “Where are they?”

Gunshots. “Northwest barracks aren’t barracks after all, they’re cells.” Steve’s breath came heavy as he glanced over one shoulder. “Morita’s there now, but he needs backup, and I should be on Dernier’s six—”

“I got it, Stevie. Go.”

“ _Wait,_ ” hissed Steve. “I—”

“Oh, fuck you,” Bucky said. 

“I love you,” said Steve.

Three words.

“Fucking _go,_ ” said Bucky, shoving Steve away with shaking hands. “They need you.”

“Buck--”

“ _Later, Steve!”_

And Steve was gone as a fresh volley of gunfire rang out across the field, and Bucky sucked in a breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and opened them as he broke for the barracks.

The dirt ground was pitted and uneven, and Bucky almost tripped twice: his boots felt like weights dragging his legs down. Just a few yards from the building, he heard something clatter on the ground behind him— _grenad—_

There was no time to do anything but run. 

He made it two steps before he stumbled and fell hard on his knees, lunging for the door— _NO—_ there were hands tight on his wrists, pulling him in, someone reaching out to yank him inside and into shelter just in time.

The grenade went off with a deafening _BANG,_ sending shrapnel in every direction: Bucky heard it smash against the other side of the wall behind him and let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Morita let go of Bucky’s arm.

In front of them lay an unconscious guard, gun hanging uselessly from one hand, and beyond that stretched rows of cells, each filled with pale, frightened faces crowding against the doors. They yelled to each other, to Bucky and Morita, to nobody at all: they were scared, they were brave, they were loud-- they were _alive._

Morita was already moving: he frisked the fallen form of the guard, digging loose a keyring and tossing it in a rattling arc to Bucky. “Catch, Barnes—”

“Go back out,” Bucky ordered over the shouts of the prisoners, snatching the keys out of the air and running to the start of the cell block. _Fuck backup._ “Watch their backs.”

He skidded to a halt, boots squeaking on the concrete, and went to work on the first lock. A man gripped the bars of the cell, chest heaving. “Is this real? You’re American? You’re—”

The lock gave with a clack. “Sure as hell not German,” muttered Bucky, clanging the rusty door open and moving onto the next. “Take it slow!” he called warningly to the exhausted men as they stumbled out, leaning against the walls: the second latch gave, and he shoved the keys into the hands of one of the guys. “Get the rest of them out,” he said, grabbing the soldier’s shoulder and looking him in the eye. “Gate’s down. You get them _out,_ you get them into the trees, and you go due north. You have a compass?”

The man nodded, eyes wide. The keys clinked against each other in his shaky grip. 

“Due north. Stay together. We’ll get troops out for you soon as we can.”

Another nod.

Bucky tugged loose the guy’s dog tags, glanced them over, then raised his voice to a bellow that carried all the way along the corridor. “ALRIGHT! Eyes up! Sergeant Danvers here is gonna get you guys off the base and to safety. His word is officially law until you break Allied territory, _is that clear_? I don’t give a shit about your rank. He says jump and you better clear six feet. IS THAT CLEAR?”

Silence.

Then a rumble of assent, a few yells of agreement. Danvers looked at Bucky. “I—“

Bucky reached back and pulled loose his— Peggy’s— pistol, flipping it neatly and offering him the grip. “Get them home, Sergeant. Last order you take for a while.”

The guy took the gun almost gingerly, running his fingers along the barrel. His expression hardened. “Yes, _sir._ ”

“Good luck,” barked Bucky, shouldering the door open and racing back out.

The fighting by the gates had died out. Most of the remaining soldiers had clumped together desperately by the base of the tower, firing blindly outwards with whatever ammo they had left in a vain attempt to hold the core of their operation.

Steve was in the thick of it, of course: Bucky heard a loud clang of metal on concrete as his shield ricocheted off the tower to clock a couple Hydra guys in the guts, then the crashing of bullets off the vibranium. _Nice try._ Dum Dum had lost his gun somehow, but he made up for it with bone-snapping kicks to the shins. Five-year-old move with two-hundred-odd pounds behind it— it looked fucking ridiculous until you noticed the trail of crooked, writhing bodies he was leaving behind.

Bucky dove into the fray beside Dernier, who was alternating punches with creative blends of English and French curse words, backpack now almost empty of explosives. A boot caught him heavy in the side, and the Frenchman grunted in pain: Bucky pulled his empty rifle off his back and clubbed the German in the side of the head. Asshole.

“Can you blow the doors?!” he shouted to Dernier. 

Dernier caught his breath, reached back to feel the weight of his pack, and sighed. “J’peux essayer.”

“Good man,” grinned Bucky, cracking a guy between them and the doors in the face and shoving him to one side as he clutched his broken nose.

Steve brought a knee up hard between the legs of the man he was sparring with, eliciting a high-pitched yelp, before dropping in to get his back against the wall and sliding up to where Dernier fiddled with a rat’s nest of wires. “You all right?”

Dernier was absorbed in his work, but Bucky looked over his head to Steve and nodded. “He’s fine.”

Another German took a running start from behind Steve, trying to get him in a chokehold, but Steve spun and planted a boot firmly on his chest to push him back, barely breathing hard.

Dernier scraped at his lighter and managed a feeble spark— enough to catch onto the fuse. “Fire in the hole!” he bellowed with a heavy accent, diving away from the doors. Bucky twisted away and held up a hand to cover his face: out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Steve raising his shield.

The doors blew with an overwhelming _BANG_ and a billowing cloud of smoke. Dernier darted back to check the impact and let out a pleased shout, disappearing into the building.

Dum Dum shoved his opponent off to one side and made a rush for the opening: Gabe skidded in behind him, then Bucky, and finally Steve, shoving the doors shut behind him and leaning hard on them in an attempt to keep them closed. His boots slipped on the floor as the men outside fought to get in, and he yelled to the rest of them: “Find something to barricade these with!”

Bucky swung his rifle back over his shoulder and jammed himself beside Steve, putting his back into the metal. Dum Dum kicked in a closet door and found a couple of brooms to lodge across the frame, while Gabe and Dernier grunted as they hauled over a heavy filing cabinet and pushed it in front of the entrance— once it was in place, Steve and Bucky ran to pull over another and place it behind the first.

They stepped back, hands in the air, praying it would hold.

Ten seconds, fifteen, and the pounding was getting weaker: they were giving up.

Steve looked behind him to where a staircase spiraled up to the top of the tower. “Bucky, you incapacitated the guys up there, yeah?”

Bucky nodded. “Dunno what kind of shape they’re in, but they’re definitely hurt. Odds are they’ll surrender the second we bust in.”

Dum Dum rolled his shoulders and set out for the steps, taking them two at a time. Dernier was next, sprinting to the top: Gabe followed.

Steve looked at Bucky. “We should—”

“Yeah,” said Bucky, and he ran for the stairs, and Steve’s feet pounded out a rhythm behind him.

The interior doors weren’t locked, but the other three men had waited for them. Steve looked down the hall and gestured to a set of doors: “Check those. Me and Barnes have got the main control room down.”

They split off, and Steve placed one hand carefully on the handle before pulling it open in a quick, smooth movement. Bucky ducked behind him on instinct as he raised the shield and they stepped inside—

To silence.

Not a word. Not a breath.

Six bodies lay sprawled on the floor in puddles of blood, and Steve dropped to his knees to check for pulses, but the sick feeling in Bucky’s gut said that there wouldn’t be any, and his friend’s expression confirmed it. Steve’s mouth was set in a sharp line, brow furrowed as he stood back up and made his way to the consoles along the window. 

“Steve,” said Bucky slowly.

“It’s fine,” Steve replied. “It’s fine. Non-lethal was too much to ask.”

“I—”

“I need your help with this—” started Steve, but a voice crackled through the speakers to cut him off: it was just slightly too loud, and from the reactions of the men still scattered outside, they heard it too. Universal PA.

 **“HELLO, NAZIS,”** declared the voice brightly, and Bucky recognized it immediately. **“WE WIN!”**

A smile crinkled at the corners of Steve’s eyes as he pulled out a lighter and melted through a clump of cables, destroying the equipment. “Jim got into the radio center.”

Bucky laughed despite the tension in the room, despite the corpses on the floor, despite the shattered glass still cracking and dropping to the ground below them. It was ridiculous. It was inappropriate. He did it anyways.

_Jim._

**“Obviously I can’t make you do anything, but I CAN inform you that _at this very second,_ all your precious intel and all your precious tech is being stolen and destroyed. A vast majority of your troops are incapacitated, disabled, or in extreme pain not otherwise specified!” **Bucky turned to the cabinets on one of the walls, tearing out shelves and throwing Steve papers to burn. **“You have _officially lost,_ and my friendly recommendation is that you surrender at your earliest convenience!”**

Under a desk, Bucky’s eyes caught an orange canister wired to machinery atop it: _gasoline._ “Steve, we’ve got gas!”

“Perfect,” yelled Steve. “Get the rest of the cabinets and go, I’ll light it—”

“No, I’ll light it, they need you out there!”

Icy blue eyes met Bucky’s. “Too risky. Dump it and go.”

“You’re not fucking EXPENDABLE,” Bucky shouted, tearing out the canister in a shower of sparks and emptying it over everything he could reach. “Give me the lighter!”

“ _Go,_ Bucky,” said Steve, clicking a flame to life and holding it out over the puddle of gasoline.

“ _No_ ,” replied Bucky, and he looked Steve dead in the eye as the lighter fell.

They ran down the stairs together, dove out the door together a split second before the top of the building went up in a fireball: the sound was incredible, and the black smoke poured into the sky to form a plume that you could have seen for miles.

Steve’s hand found Bucky’s and gripped it hard.

Morita and Falsworth had recovered another set of keys to the cell block, and they frisked the German soldiers as they filed in: Steve dug a piece of paper out of his back and scrawled out a note, which he left on the remains of the gates as they departed.

_You haven’t seen the last of us._

_\--CAPTAIN AMERICA AND THE HOWLING COMMANDOS_

It was late that night that they made camp: Steve had wanted to go after the liberated prisoners, but Gabe had talked him into staying. “They’re going to be fine. We’ll radio out to get troops to them, we’ll make sure they make it back, but we’re no good to anyone if we pass out from exhaustion.”

They’d wandered the woods for a while on a hunch of Falsworth’s before coming across an abandoned building, roof rusting through. Bucky kicked in the locked door and grainy orange flakes tumbled to the ground as they filed in to see rows of standard-issue metal cots and mattresses.

“The hell is this?” wondered Morita aloud.

“Barracks,” said Steve.

“Wow, thanks, Cap.”

Falsworth grinned. “It’s from the Great War. I remembered seeing something about this in the papers when I was a kid: the Allies took this whole area down in a night. No time to pack anything up. It was Canadians, mostly. Those stubborn fuckers.”

“What’d they do,” asked Dum Dum, “politely ask the Germans to leave?”

Bucky looked up to the ceiling, rifle in hand, as he spoke up. “The Canadians did a _lot._ They retook Vimy after France, Britain, and the US failed. They held the line at Ypres when everyone else was choking and dying. They carried out the most successful military offensive of all time in the Hundred Days-- won us the war.”

Morita coughed, and Bucky might have imagined it, but it sounded a lot like _“geek.”_

Dum Dum looked at Bucky in wide-eyed surprise for a moment, then glanced at Steve. “Cap, burn your uniform and bring us a Canadian.”

Steve smiled sheepishly, and Bucky’s knees went weak. “I guess I could wear a maple leaf if you like.”

“How about _nothing_ _but_ a maple leaf?” suggested Morita brightly. “The Nazis would pass out from the sheer beauty of it.”

“That’d work,” Steve said. “You should talk to Roosevelt.”

A matter-of-fact reply from Dernier: “Non, je ne pense pas que c’est une bonne idée. Je peux à peine me contrôler avec votre tenue actuelle, Capitaine.”

Gabe just shook his head sadly. “I’m not translating that.”

Dernier laughed.

“We should set up,” said Steve, glancing over his shoulder. “You’ve got a hell of a memory, Falsworth. _Beds._ ”

Dernier argued that they didn’t need anyone on watch tonight with the base neutralized, but the consensus was that it was better safe than sorry. Bucky and Morita drew first shift and sat to either side of the now-dented door as the stars began to flicker to life in the sky and their friends snored inside.

It was so, so quiet. That was the part Bucky had the most trouble with: he’d grown up in Brooklyn, and there was always noise somewhere around him, but out here there was nothing but a blanket of silence.

They sat there for days, or maybe just hours, or possibly minutes, before Morita spoke up.

“It’s okay with me, you know.”

Beat.

Bucky said what he knew he was supposed to say. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Morita sighed. “Yeah, you do, pal.”

“Jim.”

“Barnes.”

“ _Morita.”_

“Look, Bucky,” said Morita, and there was a sort of conviction in his voice Bucky’d never heard before as he continued: “You want to know what I meant last night? When I told Steve they’d designated me something else?”

Bucky blinked.

“Yeah, I know you were awake. Cap’s a big guy-- sure you’ve noticed-- figured he’d wake you up when he crawled out. I’d have been 1-A, actually, but nobody stopped to look at that bit… it was another F they cared about. One that stood just fine without a number.”

“They’re alphanumeric codes,” said Bucky.

“I’m a girl,” said Morita.

“Like fuck you are.”

“They said I was.”

Bucky looked to his friend, then to the stars. “Who’s _they?_ ”

“Everyone. Fucking everyone.” Morita’s eyes glinted in the light.

“Shit,” muttered Bucky, and there was nothing for a second, a minute, and Morita held his (her?) breath beside him.

Bucky closed his eyes. “I… the fuck am I supposed to say to that? _Are_ you a girl?”

“My birth certificate said so,” replied Morita.

“Fucking piece of paper. It doesn’t decide who you are. Go ask Steve and his pages of 4Fs.”

Morita sighed. “My family thought it did.”

“Your family’s not here. And _I_ don’t think it does.”

Silence.

Bucky spoke up again. “How’d you enlist?”

“I have a brother,” said Morita. “Twin. He was the first one who listened when I said I wanted to be a boy: he’s the one who came up with _James,_ told me it suited me. He went to the medical examinations on my part, got the papers, and then we switched.”

“And nobody found out?”

“I had a hell of a time at basic, but no. Nobody except one of the medics, and for whatever reason, they didn’t turn me in.”

A stick cracked as something moved in the woods, some small animal wandering about. “I’m glad they didn’t, Jim,” Bucky replied, turning to look at Morita.

Morita half-smiled. “Me too.”

The wind picked up for a moment, rustling softly through the trees, and Morita continued. “I know how you feel about Steve, pal.”

“I wish _I_ did,” said Bucky.

“I think you do.”

“I’ve loved him forever,” Bucky murmured, glancing back up to the stars. “I mean-- as long as I’ve known him, I’d tear the world apart for him. Since we were kids, I’ve loved him… but not like this.”

Morita’s breath clouded in the air in front of him. “Like what?”

“Like _this._ ”

“What, the English language isn’t extensive enough to cover how you feel about him?”

Bucky sighed. 

“You know what that sounds like?” said Morita. “That sounds like the sort of bullshit you’d find in a romance novel.”

Neither of them said anything else after that.

 

_**The New York Times, November 2nd, 1944** _

**_page 1_ **

**_CAPTAIN AMERICA & ‘HOWLING COMMANDOS’ TAKE OUT NAZI BASE_ **

**__**By Michael Urich

Just under two weeks ago, Captain America joined forces with several skilled soldiers to take out a Nazi stronghold deep in Axis territory… According to US military officials, the mission was kept highly classified in order to ensure security, and no information relating to it was released to the press until last night. Its resounding success speaks of a bright future for Captain America and his newly nicknamed ‘Howling Commandos.’ A motley crew with hometowns ranging from Fresno to France, these six men have established themselves as soldiers both strategically and technically gifted.

_**page 3** _

**_AMERICAN SERGEANT LEADS LIBERATED TROOPS TO SAFETY_ **

**__**By Rachel Farrell

Sergeant Nicholas Danvers, freed from inhumane conditions behind German borders, saved more lives than just his own on that fateful night. The 26-year-old father of two guided 73 POWs through the Axis-occupied wilderness for over a week and a half before they were intercepted by Allied troops. Danvers states that the knowledge and experience of his fellow men was primarily responsible for their survival. “You got guys from all walks of life… we had everything from a chemist to a schoolteacher and a tailor. It’s incredible, really— it’s minds, people, that are your real asset out there, not ammo or trucks or anything else.” 

He’s quick to downplay his part in the escape. “I’m not a hero… one of the guys who broke us out, he threw me some keys and appointed me leader. So that was how it ended up… I’m not the one who kept watch, I’m not the one who cooked dinner, I’m not the one who rationed supplies. I just told ‘em where to walk. Anyone could have done it.” Several of the men in Danvers’ group begged to differ, describing his actions as showing immense courage and strength under fire— both literal and figurative. “He kept his cool, kept his focus, kept us together... He saved all of us. Book-smart isn’t worth much out there if you’re too dead to share it.”

With regards to the future, Danvers intends to turn down an honourable discharge and continue to serve. “I want to make sure my kids have a country to grow up in. I want freedom for them, and for _their_ children too, the right to stand up and speak up— for themselves and for others. I’m no genius, but I have two hands and two legs, and I’ve got faith my country will put them to good use.”

_**page 4** _

**_BRITISH MILITARY AGENT SUSPENDED, PROMPTLY PROMOTED UPON RETURN TO SERVICE_ **

**__**By Eugene Jameson

…Military sources declined to comment on the precise nature of Carter’s controversial actions, but assured us that she “was entirely deserving… of both the punishment and commendation.” One of Carter’s colleagues, who has asked to remain anonymous, states that they firmly believe she was in the right: “As an Englishman born and bred, if you ask me, Churchill should just resign now and give [Carter] her rightful bloody spot as Prime Minister… Those [censored] [censored] [censored] government rats wouldn’t know the smart move if it reared up and bit them on the [censored] [censored].”

The sun rose coldly brilliant over the Western Front, flashing off rooftops and pavement and frostbitten leaves. It burned an arc across the sky, illuminating the war-ravaged land in streaks of blinding white: blackout curtains drawn out of the light’s way revealed rooms, houses, stories. A telegram, words turning to ash and dust in the fireplace. A woman, face blank, soul so torn that she couldn’t even cry. A child-- two children-- laughing, making faces. A row of pictures on the mantle, placed facedown. The sounds of a violin echoing down the hall… could those be the notes of Ode to Joy? Does the musician sing for the future he prays will occur?

Two men stand on the edge of a town, shadows cast sharply against the dirt. They listen, hear the strains of the chorus.

“It’s not over,” says Bucky.

“Neither are we,” says Steve, and-- just for a moment-- they’re free.

**Author's Note:**

> I had the privilege of getting to see this fic [illustrated](http://ensign-c.livejournal.com/1749.html) by the amazing ensign-cannonfodder and I am very, very happy to get to share these pieces with you guys! Look at them and make incoherent screeches of joy. I did.
> 
> I made some remarkably irrelevant Google searches while researching for this fic and I thought I’d share with you some of the stuff I came across-- for one, Germany ran a lesbian periodical called The Girlfriends for several years before the war broke out. Also, in 1979, a bunch of Swedes called in sick to work with a ‘case of homosexuality’ in protest of it being classified as a disease, and the word ‘gay’ went through a period when it meant a guy who had sex with a lot of female prostitutes.
> 
> Did I go on a bit of a tangent from WWII timelines? Yes. Absolutely. 
> 
> Bless you all for taking the time to read this, and, as always, instead of babbling about how much I love you I’m going to recommend something: this time it’s the webcomic Witchy, which you can read [here](https://tapastic.com/episode/49332) for free. It’s beautifully drawn and engaging and full of excellent characters.
> 
> Also as always, I’m going to babble about how much I love you anyways. This was the single fucking hardest project I’ve ever completed in my life, and it means so much that you guys took a minute to appreciate it.
> 
> Hugest thanks to my partner for the Big Bang and to the staff of The Stucky Library for organizing this.
> 
> (I will not cry. I will not cry!)
> 
> (I'm not crying!)
> 
> (Okay, maybe I'm crying a little.)


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